


You Never Ask Why

by Penwyn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 14:06:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penwyn/pseuds/Penwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You accepted that he didn't love you back a long time ago, so you content yourself with what you have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Never Ask Why

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going through some ideas for a fest and this didn't quite fit what I wanted to do for my prompt. So, have a ficlet. I liked it enough to keep it.

He always stands in the rain, and you watch him when he stands in it, arms flung out to his sides as though he should like to drown himself. You think sometimes that he’s beautiful like that, blond hair plastered to his face, his mouth open and laughing, and you ache to run out into the rain to join him. You think that you’d dance with him as the clouds thundered and raged over your heads, and he’d look at you with eyes that matched the sky and he’d tell you then that he felt the same way.

He won’t ever feel the same way. You accepted that a long time ago. Any chance you ever had with him, you lost fifteen years ago, when he offered his hand in friendship and you threw it back in his face. You replay it a thousand times in your head when you lie down to sleep at night, and you regret the circumstances that led you here.

You were kids together, and you were idiots together; hell, sometimes you’re still idiots together. In the first years after the war, when wounds were fresh and the Ministry clamoured to bring any remaining Death Eaters to justice, you took to him. When the Dark Lord and the expectations of his family weren’t in the way, he bloomed like a flower in the sun, and the blossom just so happened to face you. You thought that maybe you were his sun, and you made the mistake of believing it before you ever thought to ask.

He broke your heart.

Even released from the expectations of his upbringing, he still wanted to make something of himself, to bring honour to a family that lacked it in a post-Voldemort world. He wanted to further his bloodline, to marry a woman from a good family, and Harry Potter didn’t fit into that ideal. Sure, you were friends—best friends, really—but that didn’t mean you should let your imagination get overactive. _Just_ friends, nothing more, for years.

You suppose that it’s better than being left out in the cold completely.

He stands in the rain, and you watch him from the covered porch. You play Quidditch together, because after killing Voldemort, you didn’t want to dedicate your life to chasing Dark wizards all over the world. You’d done enough saving the world, and he’d done enough hiding from it. There was talk of making reparations in the early years, when the Ministry was bringing everyone in, but he had a short probation due to his being coerced into his role in the war. You’d thought he’d have a harder time getting a job, but then again, you never really appreciated how he flew until the war was over. The Wimbourne Wasps appreciated it. He’s a Chaser, a damned fine one, and you chase the Snitch; you work together better than you ever worked in opposition. The Wasps are top of the League, and the bared Dark Mark on his arm makes him edgy and cool to the readers of Quidditch magazines and _Witch Weekly_ alike. 

You drink together and you laugh together, and he comes to the Burrow for Christmas because, he says, the parties are more fun. He gets on with Ginny and Ron, though that took years of work, and even Hermione likes him well enough. He’s good with Rose and Hugo. You think that he’s probably good with Astoria, too, but you don’t see her very much. He doesn’t talk about her, because you asked him not to a long time ago when you were particularly frustrated, and he took it to heart.

His arms drop to his sides and he just stares up at the sky. Your arms cross across your chest and you think about calling out to him to make sure he’s all right; he may have swallowed too much water, drowning himself like a turkey, and that imagery is almost too much for you so you hide a smile.

He looks so young, standing in the downpour. You think that Draco aged very strangely when you were children, because he was impossibly immature until the day that he was suddenly too mature, too burdened, and you wonder if he felt he’d had a chance at childhood. You think sometimes that the rain is something he revels in because he wants to feel carefree again, but you’ve been reading too much literature lately and you’re seeing symbolism in everything. He probably just doesn’t want to go have a proper shower.

When he turns his head and catches you watching him, he doesn’t even look surprised; he’s caught you at it before, and you suppose that he’ll catch you at it again. You lift your glass of whiskey to him in silent toast and he laughs at you and reaches out a hand. You think that he wants your whiskey, but you’re not one to deny him anything, so you step off the porch and into the deluge. A wild laugh rips from your chest and you run to him, glasses fogging up, and he snatches the glass from you before he throws it back in one and then tosses it to the ground.

“It’s watered down,” he complains, and you want to smack him for being so thick. He’s got this gleam in his eyes, though, and he catches you by the hands. For one breathless moment, you think that he’s going to say something wonderful to you, and you squint at him through your glasses as though you might hear better if you do. “Potter, you’re soaked.”

You step on his foot, and he laughs, and you can’t help laughing, too. You laugh until you’re leaning on him, and when you kiss him in the rain, he tastes like whiskey and _wet_ , but he kisses you back and his hands are on your hips and you’re sure that he’s going to be the death of you.

He always kisses you back, but he doesn’t mean it. He always says yes, and he gets so worked up that it’s all he can do to wait until you’ve Side-Alonged to your flat before he shoves you against the wall and fucks you and comes with heavy, wet breath against your neck, but he doesn’t mean it. That makes all the difference, but you can’t stop. If you stop, someday you know you’ll fight and mean _that_ , and you won’t have him any longer at all.

He tears away from you, and you stare at him as he spins through the rain, arms outstretched again, and you wonder just how much he’s had to drink today. He took your whiskey without so much as a flinch, which he can only manage when he’s well and truly sauced, and you see the stumble in his steps. He always drinks when it rains, drinks and throws himself out in it like a madman. You never think to ask why.

You don’t think that you want to know. You just want to watch.


End file.
